


This Story Doesn't Want To Have Sex (Sherlock/John, PG-13)

by buttsnax



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Asexual Sherlock, Asexuality, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, No Sex, Slash, fairchild a-10 thunderbolt, general electric tf340-ge-100a turbofans, m/m - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-31
Updated: 2013-08-31
Packaged: 2017-12-25 05:56:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/949435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buttsnax/pseuds/buttsnax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock got out of the cab and was neither bothered nor aroused by the rain that assailed him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Story Doesn't Want To Have Sex (Sherlock/John, PG-13)

**Author's Note:**

> Artwork courtesy of an anonymous source.

 

  
Sherlock got out of the cab and was neither bothered nor aroused by the rain that assailed him.  
  
“Here you go,” he said, handing the cabbie (whom he was not sexually attracted to) a £10 bill.  
  
“And,” he continued, with a distinct lack of arousal, “I would appreciate it if this was kept . . . off the books.” He slipped the cabbie a £20 note.  
  
“Aye, guv’na,” said the cabbie, because he was British. “Never saw ya.”  
  
Sherlock nodded to him in a fraternal and calculatedly non-flirtatious way, and turned around toward the brownstone flat that was his destination. He crumpled up the wrapper of his fish and chips and quickly dusted off his fingers on his coat.  
  
It was cold--he turned up his collar, which, in conjunction with the trendy scarf he wore for reasons of both weather and fashion--but not, to be clear, to attract a mate--kept the worst of the chill at bay. The rain, as if taking this as a personal affront, increased its tempo. A raindrop fell squarely on the exposed nape of Sherlock’s neck. He shivered, but not with any sexual tension. That would be weird. It was just water.  
  
The flat was drab and unimposing. Sherlock did not want to have sex with it. He examined the brown stone that made up the brownstone walls. The individual stones were weathered and worn and brown. Sherlock ran his fingers across the masonry’s rough surface in an investigative but in no way sensual manner. He smiled. The smile was one of insight and reflected the pure joy he felt at the divination of hidden knowledge, and was not in any shape or form the reflection of hidden sexual desire.  
  
He moved quickly after that, taking the steps two at a time, and deftly picked the lock to the flat with talented fingers that had never, and had no desire to, caress another human being, though he had noted several times that he easily possessed the manual dexterity necessary to excel at such a act.  
  
Sherlock slipped inside, in a way that he had never slipped inside a woman, and looked around. The house appeared drab, but only on the surface. Sherlock saw through that quickly and he quickly took in--in a way that he had never taken in a man, no matter how desperately the internet wished it so--a myriad of details. His eyes darted around, from the bookshelf (which he was not sexually attracted to) to the ruffled cushions of the couch (which he did not want to rub his genitals on in any way) to the suspicious stain on the floor (which he most certainly did not want to give a sensual massage to).  
  
Acting on an intellectual hunch that was devoid of all emotion he quickly moved into the bedroom. He opened the wardrobe, instantly building a profile of the flat’s owner from their collection of clothing and in a fraction of a second coming to the conclusion that he would not have sex with them--but did not find what he was looking for.  
  
In a flurry of activity he methodically dug through the brace of dressers next to the bed. He might have paused briefly to linger over the erotic magazines in the nightstand if he was inclined to be distracted by such pleasures of the flesh, but he most emphatically was not. It wasn’t until the third desk drawer on the left that he found what he was, in a totally literal and non-sexually metaphorical way, looking for.  
  
“Ah-ha!” he exclaimed, holding aloft the copy of _Shark Fancy_ magazine he had found.  
  
“Well done!” cried John, appearing in the doorway, slightly out of breath.  
  
“Oh,” said Sherlock nonchalantly (and, it should be added, without a hint of subconscious desire in his voice). “I was expecting you earlier.”  
  
“Expecting me _earlier_?” said John, affronted. “I had to decipher that old lady’s journal entry about the circus, and then, after that, had to take a taxi to three separate parts of the city that were within a sixty degree shadow of a hundred year old oak tree before I found this one, which was no picnic, I assure you!”  
  
At this point, John was quite out of breath. Sherlock would have found this endearing if he had been capable of emotional attachment to another human being.  
  
“Yes,” he said instead. “I thought it was quite obvious.”  
  
“Obvious?” exploded John, gesticulating wildly. “How is it sodding obvious?”  
  
Sherlock restrained himself from having sex with anyone and everything in the vicinity, which turned out to be quite easy.  
  
“Oh,” he replied, his tone devoid of romantic undertones. “It was quite simple, actually. This was the only place within a five-mile radius from the nearest Italian deli that had a flamingo on the lawn.”  
  
John’s expression abruptly changed from anger to bemusement.  
  
“Flamingo?” he asked, his brow furrowing. “What does that ugly lawn ornament have to do with anything?”  
  
Sherlock walked closer to John, but it was purely in the interest of facilitating communication and did not express any sort of unspoken and deeply suppressed carnal desire. He proffered the magazine to John.  
  
“I found this in the desk drawer. I think it should explain everything.”  
  
John closed the remaining distance with an almost imperceptible limp. Sherlock remained unaroused. John took the magazine from him.  
  
“Bloody sharks,” he said. “Figures.”  
  
“Yes,” said Sherlock, whose brain was careening down unfathomable avenues of deductive thought and linking up previously unrelated facts with lightning speed, using absolutely none of his amazing intellect to think about anything even remotely sexual.  
  
“It is as we suspected,” he continued, impassionately in both his oral delivery and in his steadfast and unwavering lack of sexual attraction to either John, the shark related magazine, or, in fact, the tacky rug covering the hardwood floor in the bedroom.  
  
“I suspect that this . . . _conspiracy_ has roots in something much larger. Larger than sharks. Larger than the diamond that went missing. Larger than the unfortunate murder of Lucy . . .”  
  
Here he paused for a minute to not be sexually attracted to a particularly nice lamp.  
  
“Larger, in fact, than General Hampton’s annual salary.” Sherlock paused again for dramatic--but not sensual--effect.  
  
Recognition dawned in John’s eyes.  
  
“Of course,” he breathed, only now making the connection. “Bloody shame we can’t do anything about that.”  
  
For the first time, a glimmer of emotion--though it emphatically did not resemble in any way, shape, or form a sexual emotion, nor was it even tinged with the slightest hint of romantic overtones--shone in Sherlock’s eyes.  
  
“Oh?” he asked.  
  
“Oh right,” said John. “I forgot. You’re going to do that weird thing where you turn into an airplane for no reason and start dropping bombs on things.”  
  
“Yes,” said Sherlock plainly.  
  
“Well,” said John, “Can I at least have sex with you first?”  
  
“Ah,” started Sherlock, uncertain of how to continue. “I’m flattered, really, but . . . ah . . . I don’t really think that . . .” He trailed off, but it was the sort of trailing off where one actually doesn’t know how to proceed, and not some coy speechlessness that was the result of latent desperate sexual attraction.  
  
“Oh, it’s okay,” sighed John. “The internet will be disappointed, but that’s life. Keep calm and carry on and all that.”  
  
“Quite so,” said Sherlock, as he turned into a Fairchild A-10 Thunderbolt--commonly referred to as the “Warthog.” As his twin General Electric TF340-GE-100A turbofans engaged, the backwash destroying the nearby bookshelf and cheap coffee table (which, incidentally, Sherlock did not want to have sex with), he briefly dwelt on what it would be like to engage in a sexual relationship. But that thought was nothing but a quick diversion that held no lasting interest in him.  
  
As he rose upward into the sky at his maximum climb rate of 30 meters-per-second, it became difficult to keep track of the vast number of objects speeding by that he did not want to have sex with. Multitudes of people zoomed by like ants that he did not wish to fornicate with, either as people, as the metaphor implies, or as ants, if you want to be more literal.  
  
It took only a few moments--which, being as he was not sexually attracted to the concept of the passage of time, he was not aroused--until he arrived at his destination. He did not have sex with his destination. He did not have lascivious thoughts about his destination. He did not, secretly, in the wee hours of the morning, when he was absolutely and totally certain that no one else could see, gently touch himself to thoughts of his destination. Instead, he let loose a vicious torrent of explosive destruction--as a literal descriptor only and not in any way a euphemism for, say, the force of male ejaculation--loose upon his target.  
  
General Hampton looked up in time to catch a glimpse of fire outside of his window.  
  
“What in the devil-” he began, but he had no time to complete his thought as he was engulfed in a holocaust of fire and devastation whose tempestuous intensity was only matched by the sheer monumental force of how very hard Sherlock did not want to have sex with him.  
  
“God save the queen,” whispered John, a single tear running down his face.


End file.
